


i can walk with you on a perfect day

by mindshelter



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Everyone Loves Peter Parker, F/M, Fluff, Future Fic, Post-Spider-Man: Far From Home, birthday fic!!, kinda sorta a, literally just fluff oops, no one asked for 4k of peter and mj being GROSS high school sweethearts and i DELIVERED
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-19 13:23:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20210461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mindshelter/pseuds/mindshelter
Summary: It's August 9th, 2025: right before Peter's eighteenth and another day in the two-month gap between high school and his first year of college.Peter spends the morning trying to pick out a nice outfit for his date.(a birthday fic: mj takes peter out to celebrate ahead of his birthday, just the two of them. post-ffh, post identity reveal)





	i can walk with you on a perfect day

**Author's Note:**

> it is no longer august 10th but. whatever. 
> 
> slight warning for detailed descriptions of spiders? lol 
> 
> happy reading! and happy bday 2 our favourite sticky boy. absolutely funky keep up the good work

Peter spends a good ten minutes in the washroom getting his hair _just_ right; he’s laying off of hairspray most of the time now and not brushing his hair back after receiving one (1) casual compliment from MJ that (implied) she liked his hair fluffy. It had been a few months back, but the moment stuck out to him: she’d had her mouth full of s’mores granola bar, too busy staring half-heartedly at her copy of_ The Blind Assassin_ to spare him a glance when he completed his hasty half-jog to sit next to her outside Mrs. Adeosun’s classroom, waiting for 8 a.m. history to start. He’d overslept and made it Midtown on time in a dead sprint with a gnarly bedhead, remembering the agreement he had with his girlfriend (_girlfriend_!) to meet before classes began.

MJ had finally set her novel down once the bell for first period sounded, sliding it into her bookbag and giving Peter a half-hearted wave, before tilting up her chin to gesture at his head. “Cute curls,” she mumbled, before settling in her seat and promptly planting her face onto her desk. She’d napped through the first twenty minutes of class, dead to the world as Mrs. Adeosun reviewed Roosevelt’s _New Deal_.

He likes to think that he’d toned it down a couple of notches since he and MJ first got together since he’s had the opportunity to get to know her better during senior year. Peter’s stopped trying to plan his MJ-romancing attempts too specifically. He should have guessed that any attempt by Peter Parker to have a totally coherent plan would lead to embarrassingly high fail rates. It was nice, sometimes, to just go with the flow and spend time taking walks, cafés and library tables whenever the two of them had the time. 

The memory of his junior year class trip still makes him wince, even if it did bring him and MJ together and give him some more closure concerning Tony. _I’m sure I could have done both of those things without nearly dying, Christ. Thank God I started therapy. _

He still wants to look nice for his date, though. There’s a line between artfully messy hair and looking like he doesn’t know what personal hygiene is, and Peter is determined to find his niche on the spectrum.

MJ had suggested about a week earlier that the two of them spend the day together before his actual birthday celebration on Sunday. He readily agreed; while he’d grown out of really caring about his own birthday, it warms his heart that MJ wants to do something extra. Plus, with his Spider-man identity being out in the open, he’d found himself hassled into going to media events and SHIELD-related operations once school was out. He’d been hanging out with MJ a lot less than he wanted to. MJ herself spent most weeknights volunteering, Spider-man sometimes dropping in mid-patrol to say hello or chat on her trek home.

Being followed on dates was also pretty problematic, but a year later Peter is relieved that most people usually let him be, now. The speech that Stark Industries’ own Pepper Potts had given to the public about respecting boundaries - the most scathing but sophisticated tongue-lashing he had heard in his life - had certainly helped.

At the moment, he’s lounging on the couch of his and May’s apartment, dressed and ready. MJ wouldn’t tell him her plans for the day, going as far as to tell him to wait at home until she got to his building so they could officially start the day.

Peter fidgets with the metal bracelets wrapped snug around his wrists and settles EDITH into a sleek glasses-case before sticking that into his jacket pocket. He checks his phone, sends Ned a meme.

His phone vibrates with a simple _here_ from MJ and he bolts downstairs.

_

The weather is pleasant today, with just enough sun peeking through the masses of white clouds. MJ gives Peter a closed-mouth smile as he bounds over, arching his feet up a few degrees to give her a chaste kiss. She’s wearing a baggy olive hoodie over tight leggings, plus the chunky white sneakers Peter swears give her an extra inch.

A couple of train connections later, the two get off at 81st street in Manhattan, making a beeline towards the Museum of Natural History. They’re nearly at the entrance – a grand, old structure of white stone pillars – when Peter lets out a snort.

“Very funny,” he says.

A sign in the shape of a half-moon hangs inside the curved arch of the museum’s massive entryway. It’s got a solid, puke-green background, with the words _Spiders Alive!_ in large, equally garish yellow lettering, overlaid over a tacky-looking cartoon web.

MJ sticks out her tongue. “It’s a temporary exhibit that comes back every couple of years. This time they’ve increased their catalogue from seventeen different species of arachnid to, get this, eighteen,” she says, before reaching into her purse, “And I got tickets earlier, so we don’t have to rot in line. They also have their dark matter exhibit up now.”

Peter whoops sarcastically, but the beam he knows he has on his face cancels it out and then some.

_

Born and raised in New York, Peter had been to most of the city’s major attractions when he was a kid, hand in hand with Ben and May on the rare weekends both had the whole day to spare, days of warm sunshine, singing along to CD tracks in the car, and fruity ice-cream in the late evenings. Museums were his favourite place to visit, his aunt and uncle trailing patiently behind him as he stared up at the massive model of the universe in the Rose Centre, colourful spheres suspended by thin cable. For his sixth birthday, Peter received a set of space-related books that he re-read over and over. Nowadays, they’re tucked somewhere in the corner bookshelf of his room, shiny hardcover and glossy pages now long-untouched.

It’s nice to be back, years later without the pretense of a field trip, holding MJ’s hand and sifting through the _Hall of Ocean Life_. The model fish don’t look as grand and captivating as they had been when he was a child, but it’s still fun to watch MJ hold the railing with her free hand and tilt her body forward to get a closer look at the coral dioramas.

It’s reminiscent of their previous visit to the aquarium, where they had mucked around for much longer than they needed, going from tank to tank to assign personalities to the fish they saw and criticizing their fashion sense. He and MJ later trudged through the rest of Coney Island, with Peter idly pointing out, soda in hand, the site of the Stark Jet crash as they walked past the Cyclone. 

“Place was due for repairs anyway,” MJ had said, making Peter bark out a laugh.

Peter is more excited than he’s willing to admit when they finally reach the _Spiders Alive!_ exhibit on the third floor. The showroom is dimly lit and carpeted a dark grey. At the centre is a big model tarantula with a yellow mouth and prominent fangs, with a little sign that says _Climb on me!_ between its two front legs.

Once the small gaggle of kids playing on the thing get called away by their parents, Peter flags down another visitor to take a picture of him and MJ. The teenager, probably two or three years younger than him nods, eyes slowly growing into saucers as recognition dawns on his face, an astonished expression that Peter still isn’t used to. He fumbles a bit as Peter swipes open his camera app and hands his phone over before joining MJ on the tarantula’s head, wrapping an arm around her waist, thighs touching. He faces the lens with a wide smile.

A few clicks later, the teenager steps towards the couple, ears red. Peter hears MJ snicker beside him, but leaves it be in favour of taking his phone back and giving a chipper, “Thanks, man.”

“O-oh, no problem,” he mumbles, half looking like he wants to sink into the ground and half constipated, as if he’s building up the courage to say something else. 

MJ steps forward. “Yeah, thanks,” she says.

Across from Peter, the boy blows out a breath, swiping at a fringe of jet-black hair, cheeks pink. “Um.”

Peter blinks, confused. “Uh, are you okay?”

This seems to do the trick, and the boy jolts up as if standing at attention and blurts, “_CanIgetapicture_. With you. Please?”

MJ smiles as if she’d been expecting that question all along and offers to do the honours. Once she’s taken a few photos and returns the device the kid bolts off in a ramble of thanks, and Peter swears he picks up on a faint squeal once he’s out of sight.

“Man, Peter,” MJ says, “I kind of wish I got a picture of that guy’s face when he was trying to work up the nerve – you don’t find a face that _screams_ man versus self like that every day." 

A few minutes later, Peter and MJ are checking out the assortment of actual, live spiders organized around the showroom. MJ points to a large furry mass with prominent tusks, narrow and sharp as needles near the tips. Peter leans closer to the display case, seeing the large, coffee-coloured creature in its miniature forest of dark, moist soil and emerald leaves, lounging near its water bowl. It’s pretty gigantic, and even Spider-man is a little ill-at-ease witnessing how… big and round it is.

“Wow,” he mutters, at a loss for words and mildly disgusted, “this one’s so…”

“Bulbous,” MJ finishes. “_Thick_.”

Peter frowns. “Don’t call it bulbous, MJ; you’ll hurt its feelings. Its name is,” he says, glancing at the etched panel below the glass windows, “Goliath birdeater.”

“Rotund. Chunky,” MJ says, moving on to the next creature.

They look at the giant vinegaroon, the marshy tank set up with small fish and various translucent larvae for the Raft spider, patterned black-and white like a skunk. There’s the trapdoor spider, much less slender than its semiaquatic cousin and a shiny, fuzzy red-brown. The Mexican red knee is actually kind of pretty, smooth fur with vibrant orange limbs. It looks like a lively Halloween decoration. Even a black widow, painted its iconic, polished black, crimson hourglass marking on its abdomen.

As they skim the signs detailing spider-conservation efforts and their roles in ecosystems around the world, Peter says, “I know it’s ironic with me being Spider-man and everything, but some of these guys give me the creeps.”

MJ then decides to give the worst possible answer. She had always poked fun at his dedication to the theme imposed upon him (“You got enhanced strength and senses but the webbing is just _you_ going the extra mile,” she had teased), but nothing would have prepared him for the words that leave her mouth next. “Since you were bitten by a spider that changed your DNA, do you think you give off, like, pheromones now that attract spiders towards you? Like some arachnid whisperer?”

A pregnant pause. “What the fuck?”

She laughs at Peter’s repulsed face and pulls him closer.

_

Three-and-a-half hours go by in a flash and it’s about five in the evening when they’re through all four floors plus the gift shop, feet sore and tingling. It’s summer, so it’s still bright and lively outside, even more people bustling about the streets of Manhattan as they clock out of a Saturday shift or emerge for some sightseeing and a meal. It’s still not as crowded as it used to be, people practically swarming everywhere one could look among bright LED screens and the whir of vehicles, but it’s getting there.

Peter’s having a great time, if he’s being entirely honest. They step out of the museum before deciding to tuck themselves into a quieter corner of Central Park, relaxing in the grass. The area is blessedly empty of other passerby. He has his head in MJ’s lap, boneless and at ease, distantly glad that he’d eaten more food for lunch than normal. His stomach would probably be caving in by now if he hadn’t stuffed those extra fruit pastries into his mouth, chewing while he dug through his drawers for a matching pair of socks.

He’s still kind of hungry right now, but Peter distracts himself with the leafy canopy above him, the blue-grey sky. Moments of peace like this one are hard to come by; after Europe, after Mysterio, Peter had been inadvertently thrown into more public scrutiny than he’d ever been prepared for. Things largely worked out, but despite the surprisingly big rally in New York – and especially Queens – in his defense, it had ultimately taken the release of Quentin Beck’s paperwork as a former SI employee and an affirmation from the CEO that Peter Parker was a valued family friend, on _top_ of being Spider-man, to get the press and general public to withdraw their accusations.

The fallout from that was a monster on its own. Peter had become an overnight celebrity. School wasn’t the same, walking down the street wasn’t the same, cameras constantly pointing at him, cruddy videos he knows will end up on Snapchat, Twitter, wherever.

It’s not all _Spider-man spotted in Brooklyn eating hot dog, Peter Parker with mii channel music for 5 minutes and 56 seconds _– sometimes he feels like Winston Smith, only somewhat safe nestled in the corners of his own home, still trapped in Big Brother’s vast, far-reaching turf. The Washington Post penned an opinion piece after his admission to MIT went public, calling him a _symbol of the future_ and an even cheesier _beacon of optimism for his generation,_ all variations of things that Peter is never sure he can live up to. Sometimes he finds himself afraid to speak, worried that someone is listening in and putting his words out of context, warping them into something ugly and malicious. There are moments where the anxiety of being a letdown eats at him.

Even after the hype had died down and Peter could reconcile himself and his alter-ego without spiralling into an existential crisis, he was still reluctant to be seen around MJ and Ned, concerned that their privacy would be violated, safety thwarted.

“Peter, no offense,” Ned had said, ever a loyal guy-in-the-chair, “but that train’s already left the station.”

“That ship has _long_ sailed,” MJ added helpfully. The two were right, of course; when that Daily Bugle broadcast had aired in Times Square, people had also noticed the young woman Spider-man had been swinging around with just moments prior.

God. The information age can be a real fucking dystopia. Peter didn’t know what he did to deserve company like Ned and MJ, deciding to stick around despite everything, but he is infinitely grateful.

So as much as he loved his concrete jungle of a city, growing up around big crowds, the chaotic honks and yells of cars and pedestrians almost a soothing background noise to him, Peter has learned to find bliss in quiet. There’s only a mild whoosh of a breeze moving through the air now, MJ’s soft, steady breaths. 

Peter’s affection-addled thoughts, back when his feelings for MJ was a budding crush, were just loops of _wow she’s so cool, so pretty, funny and smart and consumes so much modernist literature and reads crime fiction and how can I get her to notice me? _It led him to being kind of floored when his now-girlfriend told him she’d liked him since sophomore year.

May had scoffed when he told her, delighted and fired up. _Honey, didn’t she come to your detentions and literally draw you? Multiple times? Pete, _come_ on._

Peter’s not sure he wants this to end. He’d finally re-established a rhythm, communicating more with May, making time for Ned, and building this relationship he has with MJ in the past year. Now he’s going to uproot himself and go to university in Massachusetts.

Don’t get him wrong; MIT is his dream school and likely one of the best places out there to pursue an engineering degree. He’s so incredibly excited to go, looking up his professors for first year, his program options, getting into research, texting Harley questions about dorms and campus life.

His aunt had hugged the life out of him when he checked his admission status to the point where she literally hoisted him out and swung him around their apartment, yelling her congratulations as Peter howled with laughter.

At the same time, he doesn’t feel ready to face another onslaught of cameras, people hungry for the new novelty of Spider-man’s college adventures. If he’s going to make friends, if he’s going to be lonely. He’s not quite ready to leave his loved ones, though he supposes there wouldn’t ever be a point where he wouldn’t miss them at all. MJ herself is headed off to UPenn.

As if on cue to break Peter out of his thoughts, his stomach gurgles, loud and insatiable. MJ chortles and says, “Dinner time?”

Peter gets back on his feet and extends a hand for her to grab, pulling her up. “Hell yeah it is.” 

_

They board a southbound bus and arrive about half an hour later to East Village, where MJ takes Peter to a charming little hole-in-the-wall spot, hidden among ageing brick buildings and dirty, rusting steel stairs bolted to mortar and stone. It’s a tiny little Japanese bistro that sells bentos and tapas well into the night, its floorboards scratched and dented from years of foot traffic. The server, a petite young woman, brings glasses and a pitcher of ice water to their table before stepping away.

Once they’ve picked an appetizer and some dishes to share, MJ tells Peter that the law firm her brother works at is a simple 15-minute walk from this restaurant, and that she brought them here today on his recommendation. Her brother, she tells him, likes to eat here with his boyfriend, a paralegal in another department that he had become infatuated with it and later mustered up the courage to talk to after relentless teasing from coworkers. It was their go-to date spot to wind down after a busy and stressful workday.

“This place is, uh,” MJ says, “Their good-luck venue, in a way? So I wanted to bring you here too.” 

_Oh my God_, Peter thinks, _MJ’s wooing me. She went to her brother for dating advice_. And boy, was it working. Peter’s being charmed. 

The same server from earlier arrives and sets down two bowls of soup and a plate of chicken _karaage_. Peter unwraps his chopsticks and picks up a piece to set on MJ’s plate before grabbing his own, blowing at it to avoid burning his tongue. 

Early on, MJ had admitted that she wasn’t the best at getting close to people, hiding her doubts and introversion behind her phlegmatic personality. Her frank, deadpan attitude was by no means an act, but she’d rarely given many people the chance to learn about her beyond that. Peter remembers those conversations whenever insecurity writes itself on MJ’s face, worried that she’d said too much, been too zealous. 

MJ’s definitely trying to go through with her version of ooey-gooey today. The place is too dark to see if her face is red, but she’s glaring at her chicken with a strange ferocity and her neck is stiff. 

Ah, yes, the mortifying ordeal of being known.

So Peter chooses to say, “MJ, you’re the best girlfriend ever.”

Said girlfriend squints, lips pressing into a thin line. “I’m the only significant other you’ve ever had.”

“You’re the best,” Peter repeats, and continues before MJ can say anything, “and no, I am not biased, screw you, _shut up_, this is 1000% objective.”

MJ fakes a gag, but she’s biting the inside of her cheek. “That’s so fucking greasy, Peter.”

Peter then has the audacity to blow her a kiss and say, “And yet here you are, _Michelle_.” She scoffs, sipping at her broth. 

A few minutes later, their food arrives and Peter digs into a creamy bowl of noodles. MJ has him try some curry in exchange for his udon. They talk about their favourite memories from senior year, like Mr. Kim shattering a whole box of microscope slides when demonstrating how to prepare a wet mount in biology. Peter asks MJ about her brother’s non-profit, which focuses on providing free or low-cost legal services to blipped students trying to regain admission or financial aid. If she’s fully decided on her class schedule, whether she knows her roommate’s name yet, and her plans to join UPenn’s debate team.

They veer off on a tangent about where others in their graduating class are headed, reminiscing about whatever petty teenager drama happened leading up to graduation, because someone who likes people-watching as much as MJ does is only slightly surprisingly a bit of a gossip. Sunset passes and their meals are long finished, but they talk and talk and talk.

When the time comes to pay, Peter gives MJ a challenging look. He’s stopped falling for MJ’s oh-I’m-on-my-period-lemme-just-go-use-the-restroom _con_ ever since Peter asked for the bill once and MJ had the nerve to smirk at him and enunciate, “Not today, bitch.”

This time they agree to keep the costs separate when Peter promises her she can buy him dessert.

_

The clock strikes midnight by the time Peter and MJ are riding the subway back to Queens, seated on one of the train’s uncomfortable lilac benches. There’s a group of college-aged friends on the other side of the compartment, giggling, tipsy and not doing a good job at hiding it. A woman in a business suit, leaning the top of her head back against the window with her earbuds in. Nearby, what must have been some spilled cola, now a rust-coloured stain on the floor.

Over the course of the next couple minutes, his phone comes alive with notifications. Peter reads them with a smile, typing out quick and equally enthusiastic responses as he goes.

**may **

_Happy birthday, honey! I love you so much. Get home safe, and see you soon!_

**nedward**

_best of friends, best of friends : ))) my han brolo. brobi wan kenobi. HAPPY BIRTHDAY! ILY!! eighteen!! see u tmr! (or today if we’re being technical lol)_

Ned had also tacked on several blue and red heart emojis, plus a set of rather incriminating videos and photos. There's a selfie of Peter and him at graduation, sweating under their gowns and suits, faces vibrant nonetheless, Peter laughing so hard at something off camera that smoothie comes out his nostrils, and a shaky recording of Peter’s kitchen, the boy in question’s mouth swollen like a pufferfish’s after his wisdom teeth removal. Video-Peter from spring break scowls as he tries to take a sip of plain porridge only to have his gums start bleeding all over again, rivulets of bright red leaking out of his mouth as he complains about how he could be fighting crime instead of shoving gauze down his throat.

**harley**

_hbd. dickweed _

_cant believe youre gonna be a loser freshman _

Peter snorts. Harley’s halfway through his undergrad degree, heading into his third year for the next academic session. Peter doesn’t see him often, but they get along like a house on fire when they do and text semi-frequently.

**may’s bf :’0**

_Happy 18th, kid_

**Pepper **

_Happy birthday, Peter! Morgan’s so excited to see you again that she could barely sleep. _

Peter shows MJ the wisdom teeth clip and concedes when his girlfriend demands that he forward it to her. She smiles, satisfied when her own phone lights up and turns to him, mumbling a quiet, “Happy birthday, dork.” 

Peter feels like he’s floating in a cotton-candy sky. “Thank you. For today,” he says, and kisses her on the forehead. “I had a lot of fun.”

_

He walks her back to her apartment building. Before they part ways, MJ kisses him under the yellow lights of a streetlamp, lips chapped but warm all the same. Peter melts into it, a pleased hum sounding at the back of his throat as his eyes flutter shut. Cold, slender fingers touch the nape of his neck.

He pulls her close; breathes her in. Breaks the kiss to settle his forehead onto her shoulder. “Goodnight,” he mumbles.

“See you tomorrow.”

Peter watches her walk inside, offering a final wave before he activates his webshooters and begins his swing back home, heart full.

**Author's Note:**

> i've never been to new york in my life and i dont even live in the united states but i love urban landscapes! i hope ive been able to capture the fondness peter has for his city heh 
> 
> also incorporated some of the worries peter has about starting post-secondary because that was. literally me last year ;')
> 
> thanks for dropping in! hope this was a good read


End file.
